Strange & Beautiful
by CheshireCity
Summary: Destiel: Years of distance and bated breath has finally drawn Dean and Castiel to discover the forces that keep them going - each other. Yaoi. Complete.


**Strange and Beautiful**

The diner had been crowded, buzzing with halogen and the gentle whir of old arcade games and jukeboxes. The food was passable, and to be honest the pie wasn't even all that good. But Castiel noticed none of this as he sat wedged between Sam Winchester and an increasingly cold window. It was eleven o'clock, making them the only remaining patrons in the establishment; a few employees tidying up the joint with anxious thoughts of home and of sleep serving as their only companionship. As on most cases, the days – and especially the nights – seemed to stretch on without end. The following day would be spent entrenched in fervent hunting, and it was all very glorious and adventurous in theory, but there were no real words for the stagnant waiting until the actual event. With no place else to kill their time, the trio had wandered in to the small restaurant with more intent to drain the clock than to actually eat.

It had been exactly an hour and forty-seven minutes now, not that Castiel was counting. It had taken precisely nine minutes and twenty-three seconds for their meals to arrive, and another six minutes and fifty-five seconds for Dean to polish off his burger. Two and a quarter minutes later, Sam had finished off his wrap, leaving Castiel himself to another awkward hundred and ninety-four seconds of eating his own burger while Dean sucked down a milkshake with what could only be labeled as 'childish glee'. Which left the remaining eighty-five minutes and forty-three seconds to conversation under the pretense of normalcy. Not that Castiel was counting.

It was a strange, albeit obnoxious ability that the angel possessed. For one who lived so long it was a burden to be so omniscient; to be able to rewind time or to view present action as if marked with a timestamp on human cameras. So that hour and forty-seven minutes passed at an aggravating rate to Castiel, but he made the most of it while he could.

The customers of the diner dwindled as the seconds trickled by, causing for less and less distraction. The Winchesters noted this too: they said nothing aloud, but they shifted in their seats as though unsettled by a stranger who had decided on a whim to sit at their booth. And Castiel knew – could practically read – the strained smiles that looked for all the world to be genuine but belied to him alone the electric apprehension of being left alone with their own thoughts, their own world, yet again. It was these things that the angel noted; every glance and hitch of breath, every flicker of emotion or subtle shift in body language. It was every ounce of humanity that Castiel cherished with all of his being. Yet at the same time, it caused a horrible ache within him. It was a shame that what he loved most inflicted so much pain in return.

The younger Winchester was, in his own right, more tolerable. He had had a decent life – Castiel had seen it; the thrill of Sam's boyish victory upon receiving an academic medal, the overpowering rush of adoration upon his first kiss with Jessica – and so Sam projected in ways that most humans did: when the angel looked at him, he could feel an aura of accomplishment, determination, and the unending need to comfort others, blanketing over the thinner, more perverse layer of desire, independence, and the thirst for recognition. It was both bleak and inspiring, and so Castiel supposed that this was why he liked Sam. Sam was, for all the world, potentially normal. He was intelligent, clean-shaven, smelled vaguely earthy, and had the chance of full re-integration into human society once the nightmare of the Apocalypse was settled. If it was settled.

But it was the elder Winchester, it was Dean, who captured the angel's attention so thoroughly that night. Any night, day, or spare minute. Dean was intolerable. He drank too much, he hustled, he cheated, and he tried to take home anything that moved. He was all for aesthetics: from his beloved vintage Impala, to his own appearance, to the women he chased. He bluffed too much and always said the wrong thing, always cut someone out with harsh words and criticisms. If he had his own permanent residence, the entire thing could be labeled as a 'den of iniquity', but it would be too unlike the hunter to have anything permanent, to allow himself to settle down. And it was that one, small sliver of _something_ that Castiel just couldn't ignore. Dean was materialistic and sharp-tongued, but he was also, just barely, vulnerable. Beneath the façade and the charms and the tense, fake smiles, he was weak and he was scared. Castiel could see this, _feel_ this, and it captivated his every thought.

When the angel looked at Dean, the emotions seeping out where untamable. They penetrated him to the core, reaching out to him with desperate fingertips, pawing, begging, searching for a handhold and for someone to _please just help_. So he took the hands and folded them gently within his own breast, knowing that the action would be too subtle, too inhuman to be noticed, but did so nonetheless. He could see right through Dean Winchester in every imaginable way, yet he was entirely powerless to so much as reach out and offer comfort. He had tried, in his own unsuccessful way. He had seen Sam try, try, and try again to melt down the fortress that sealed the older hunter off from the world that continuously tried to tear him apart. Every attempt, no matter how needed, was shunned with a cold shoulder and a flurry of 'I'm okay's' and 'leave me alone's', and the feeble hands retracted, leaving Castiel to grope for them worriedly in the gathering darkness of Dean's psyche. Castiel hated that, hated it more than he could bear. As an angel, he was compelled to help others. As he himself, he could not ignore the aches and tumultuous cries of those around him, of those, dare he say it, who had touched his own being and left their mark. Dean had seared himself, his memory, so deep into the angel that it stung to think of it, stung to have it retracted. In general, the hunter just hurt. So he resigned himself to keeping a measured distance, encasing the trembling hands within his own, only ever indicating his awareness with a subtle look or gentle comment.

As the diner cleared, Dean's thoughts grew frantic. _'Don't leave me alone. Don't fucking leave me with only my thoughts.'_ He had taken a generous bit of mostly-grainy apple pie as though to rectify his admission of fear.

_'I won't leave you.'_ Castiel silently answered, although he knew his thoughts would never be received. _'I cannot leave you, Dean.'_ The fork made a piercing screech as it ground too firmly against the cheap plate beneath it, the hand driving it pressing too firmly in overcompensation. The angel dropped his gaze as though offering a bit of privacy. The hunter would never openly admit to fear, but it seeped out of his very pores like creatures trying to outrun a wildfire. A chilling tingle crept into Castiel's chest, and he knew instinctively that he was feeling Dean's emotions once more. The hunter paused, subconsciously rubbing at the hidden scar on his shoulder before resuming the mundane task of pressing the pie into flattened squares before resigning and actually consuming them.

The angel watched in silent wonder. How was it that one could be so aware and yet so ignorant of something so sacred? The mark – his mark – nestled beneath the iconic leather jacket and the thin press of cotton as though hibernating for the winter. It had been a long, _long_ winter, after all. Virtually dormant and powerless, the mark stood for little more than signature in graphite: erasable, but a claim all the same. A claim that any angel or being could see and know just by projection was there, indicating without a doubt – and a certain redhead flitted through the angel's mind, pricking it with unspoken taunts – that the other belonged to him. That there was undeniable proof that upon that fateful day, that their souls were bound together for all eternity, tying them together in the most sacred form of partnership that any creature could ever aspire to attain. It was permanent, binding, and, most sacred of all, was the only one that Castiel would ever be entitled to. It was a mark of marriage between angels, two beings that had literally all of eternity to be at each other's sides. 'Till death do we part'.

But the mission had been straightforward, and there had been no false illusions. Dean Winchester must be delivered from the torments of perdition, and his soul must return entirely intact. The candidates had all known that this meant that it would have to be bound to their own to make it, to, in effect, piggyback its way to safety by being joined with that of an angel, a being that could move between the way lines and the thin passages of the worlds without being stripped apart piece by piece. That once committed to the mission; there was no backing out, only success or annihilation. But mostly, there would be no personal future. Just the fleeting emotions of one mate flooding the senses of the target's angel partner, and then in an instant, the sands of time would screech to an alarming stop, and that would be it. No more mate, not ever. They were only physically capable of one. And the heart wrenching extremes of no longer feeling the emotions of another would be overwhelming, too much. Castiel knew all of this. Knew, too, that his brothers and sisters weren't just quarreling as they used to. That they were killing, sinning, in the name of his Father and that his loyalty would make him disposable. So he volunteered, thinking that his future would be short whether it was ended by kin or by loss. He thought it would be easy, efficient. A solution that would allow his brethren the chance at their own personal happiness. But the worst thing that could occur, did. Castiel found his happiness. And it was mortal.

Dean Winchester – his _soulmate_ – was a complex, beautiful mass of insecurities and raw, unbridled emotions. When he lashed out, it was passionate. He yelled because he was afraid of someone else he loved getting hurt. He drank because he didn't want to think of the things that slowed him down. He avoided well-meaning queries because he could only imagine it would bring more blood on his hands. He chased every attractive woman he saw because he needed reassurance. Proof that someone would want him, that someone might not find him the monster he felt himself to be. Proof that they were just a pretty face, not a name or identity or even a memory, nothing that could be left behind as a faint impression of what could have been love. Because if there was one thing that Dean feared above all else, it was that he would one day fall in love. That his lifestyle would catch up with him one day and that he would have to face the heartache of having to leave behind what he wanted the most: a family. Because as long as he chased distractions, he wouldn't have to deal with the fact that he wouldn't ever be entitled to one, no matter how hard he kicked or screamed or bargained or fought.

So Castiel caressed the frightened hands that reached out to him without the hunter's awareness, and he cradled them to his chest, allowing Dean to revel in a world constructed of testosterone, food, and women that weren't really a part of him at all. Without the means to comfort without scaring the other man off, Castiel permitted these delusions, hoping with fervent passion that one day his own emotions would translate back to the man on the other side of the booth who was falling apart at the seams.

Dean made his hundred and sixteenth rotation along the chipped dishware, dragging the edge of his fork through faint trails of crust crumbs, and then time resumed and it had been exactly an hour and forty-eight minutes since the three of them had first crowded into the diner, then boisterous and full of human excitement. The hunter dropped the utensil with an ungraceful clatter, and for a second the angel thought to reach out and catch it to prevent the ringing sound that would intensify to his own elite hearing, but then Dean was talking, and he lost all motivation to interrupt whatever was being said.

"-leave now, before they kick us out." He offered a lopsided – forced – smile as Sam chuckled and shifted in his seat, easing out of the booth and stretching in the aisle way. Castiel slid off the bench in the same manner Sam had; he found it a bit undignified, but he wasn't about to cross Dean and his worries that someone would eventually notice the angel's penchant for appearing and disappearing at will. He rose, not bothering to straighten out his clothes and followed the brothers out in a way that a small animal might, ever curious of what each step and turn might bring him to discover, what new secret of humanity he might uncover. But the walk back to the Impala was brief, punctuated by shivers and muttered complaints on behalf of the two hunters as they braced their backs against the crisp winter air, and by that note, Castiel assumed that it must be cold.

They boarded the Impala, and the angel made sure to throw out a, "You should let it heat up a bit" from the backseat, which wasn't met with much notice. The Winchesters were long used to the angel's odd bits of knowledge or observations, but, Castiel added with a private smile, also usually unaware of the underlying messages of concern for their well-being that the words usually possessed. As an Angel of the Lord, Castiel couldn't gauge the temperature of the outside air, or even process by his own means that it was 'cold', and he certainly didn't want his friends freezing to death, or at risk of losing limbs. Not that he was paranoid, but one could never quite be too sure when it came to frail, precious beings such as the ones he immersed himself in.

"You can just drop me off at the library." Sam began as the Chevy reversed out of the parking lot.

"Dude, you do realize it's almost midnight, right?" his brother retorted.

"Yeah, well, that's the thing. See, with what we're hunting, they're more likely to move at a time where the general public won't notice them, right? Which would be around now, when most people are sleeping. The last attack was at an office building two blocks down, but built along the same sewage line as the library. My bet is that the next attack will be around there, and it's bound to make some sort of final arrangements."

There was a pause and Castiel could feel a spark in his chest at Dean's indignant worry. "No way. You're not doing it."

"It's just a stake-out, Dean, I'll be fine. If it's a shifter like we think it is, then all I need is a gun. Easy. I'm not some kid anymore; just think of it as research."

"Yeah, well have you ever met a book that could get you killed, cause I sure as hell haven't."

"Yeah, famous last words." Sam muttered just low enough that only the angel could hear them. "Look, Dean, I just think that this will be the best for all of us. You need sleep and we need more information. I've got a gun, a clip, and a warmer jacket in the backseat. I'll be set for the night."

There was a tense silence, and the angel could almost see the metaphorical scales in Dean's head trying to calculate the outcomes. Eventually, the hunter gave up with a terse, "You better answer that phone of yours on the first ring, you got it? You don't, and I'll kick your ass into next week. We still don't know what we're dealing with, and it could be a whole higher pay grade than we're bargaining for. If you get your ass handed to you by some monster, then that's not on me, you got it?"

Castiel dropped his gaze out the window because he knew that it _would_ be on Dean, at least in the hunter's mind, but Sam was laughing in the seat in front of him and he knew that it was an unspoken truth hanging ominously above them all. The remainder of the ride remained silent, save for the classic rock that Dean had punched on in agitation, a clear attempt in the angel's mind that he was trying to shrug off his worries. They pulled up smoothly to a curb, and Sam jumped out, unusually enthused for one about to engage in a horrifically boring task, but then again, every human had their own vices and means of coping.

"You two hold down the fort while I'm out." He said passed the rolled-down window. "I don't know how long I'll be out, but I'll have my cell on me if you need me, or if the Halo Patrol doesn't get here ahead of time." He laughed, and this time Castiel let out a chuckle along with him. "I have the second key to our room." The younger continued, fishing about in his jacket pocket for the evidence. "Don't worry about staying up; I'll just let myself in in the morning."

"You'd better bring me some doughnuts when you do!" Dean called to his brother's retreating back. He sighed, sinking into his seat, looking the slightest bit smaller under the weight of his own worries. Castiel, not knowing what else to do, quickly filled the passenger's seat. "Perhaps you should post a list of which kinds you require on the outside of the hotel door."

Dean barked a short laugh, turning a look of wonder upon the angel. Castiel drank it up like it was the last drops of water in existence. "You never do fail to amuse me, Cas." His human chuckled into his right turn.

"Was what I suggested impractical?" the angel asked, eyes crinkling at the corners as they usually did when he was contemplating something foreign.

"Well I guess not," the hunter replied, tone holding the image of his smile. "but I kinda wonder what people would think if they saw the words 'crème filled' taped to a door."

Castiel paused in thoughtful consideration. "Are you implying that the natural thing to do would be to assume that the item to which it is posted is full of crème?"

Dean laughed at this, a full, genuine laugh that sent ripples of sheer joy coursing through Castiel's chest, electrifying his being with a pleasant humming _warmth_ of which he rarely had the privilege of experiencing. "Probably not, Cas. I'd bet they'd think something a bit dirtier."

At this the angel made a face, wondering what kind of innuendo could possibly be found within something as mundane and innocent as a crème stuffed pastry. After three minutes and twenty-nine seconds, he gave up trying, delighting instead in the lasting good mood within the vehicle. With a small flutter of pride, Castiel realized that he had caused this, however unintentional it may have been. By the time they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Dean was singing the last few bars of a 'Kansas' song, but how an entire state could elect lyrics was far beyond the angel's capacity.

Their room was festooned with vintage looking six pointed stars and crescent moons, beds bedecked with swaths of violet and dark yellow. A very old television sat opposite the beds – fulls, for a change – and despite the gaudy décor, even Castiel had to admit that the apartment looked much plusher than the motel rooms that the Winchesters usually purchased. Even as an angel without requirement of sleep, he felt great sympathy for the brother's bodies, bruised and knotted up from sagging mattresses and prodding box springs. Not that his own body didn't ache and tire. He sat heavily upon the edge of a bed as Dean busied himself around the room, rearranging it to his preference. A snigger escaped him as he cleaned up the desk, glittering a tinny pink and red from the St. Valentine's Day advertisements. The hunter held up a glossy brochure for Castiel's inspection, a busty lace-clad blonde beneath the banner that the angel recognized as the design for pay-per-view movies. Slowly he examined the letters, noting first that the language was in Spanish, before converting each word, character-by-character into Enochian.

"Casa Erotica Eight: Hearts on Fire?" his eyes flitted back up to his human's, which were full of mirth.

"This place is nicer than a motel, but it's still no Marriot." The hunter marveled with amusement. "Who'd 'ave thought?"

"It's porn, isn't it?" the angel replied evenly, uncertain what his summation would prompt. Dean laughed aloud, triggering the same rush of joy through Castiel's system that he had experienced twelve and a half minutes ago in the Impala. Without saying a word, a smile still on his face, Dean disappeared behind the bathroom door, leaving Castiel more or less to himself.

It had been a long week for all of them. With one thing after another, the trio had found themselves stuck on case after case after case, hardly taking a room for breather, and if that, most of it was spent delving nose deep into books or old records. It was tedious, not to mention adrenaline inducing, and therefore remarkably tiring, and even Castiel was feeling a bit of the burnout. He needed the rest just as much as the brothers did: these days he spent more time with the Winchesters than usual, rarely spreading his wings to dash about and gather crucial side information. There had been no need with the petty yet strong monsters that had been cropping up all over the place, and Castiel found very little motivation to leave his human and his human's brother. He was fond of them; after all, despite the severe threats and warnings he had received. He couldn't help it; their emotions were contagious and beautiful, _free_. But a week of car rides and suits and cheap diner food with tiny booths had left him feeling cramped and claustrophobic; his own soul wavelength brushing against the raw nerves and souls of all those around him, feeding his curiosities, but bogging him down simultaneously with information overflow.

He heard Dean bustling around in preparation for bed and took the time to leisurely stretch out on the mattress. It wasn't a custom Castiel usually partook in; prostrating himself in that way left him ridiculously vulnerable, but the angel felt safe, and he was too stiff on any account to worry about his presentation. He straightened his spine, willing the vertebrae to realign and pop, relieving some of his tension. When that failed, he arched his upper back off the mattress, settling with a soft sigh when a visceral popping resulted. Yet the ache persisted, gathering at the juncture of his shoulder blades as though muscle had been stretched too thin or wound too tight. He rolled his shoulders, willing the discomfort away, but it only built steadily more and more until the angel let out a defeated sigh, loosing his wings behind him like elegant, black sails. They spanned a good portion of the room, iridescent with gentle undercurrents of blues and greens as the light caught them, looking sleek and shiny rather than oily. Feathers rustled on the current of an invisible breeze, soaking up their ever-brief freedoms. Castiel rolled his spine, a moan of content escaping his lips as he worked muscle that was rarely utilized anymore.

The noise drew the hunter's attention, and he peeked out into the main room to assess the situation. "Cas? Are you oka-" And then the visage of the angel's wings fully manifested on earth hit him and he was stunned into silence. Castiel started, eyes wide as he shuffled the appendages closed behind him, as if trying to tuck something obscene out of sight. The angel coughed, almost in defense.

"My apologies, Dean, I hadn't realized you were done."

"So… those are really your wings?" the hunter asked, voice dusted with awe. The angel shuffled moreso, as if under scrutiny, and allowed a subtle nod.

"Yes, they are. I can put them away now, it's fine."

"Don't." A command. Clear, cut, simple, and shocking both to speaker and listener. Castiel stilled, one wing crooked at an odd angle, feathers ruffling in apprehension. Dean cleared his throat as though clearing his previous statement, shifting in place. "I mean, don't worry about it. They're really interesting. Beautiful, really."

At this the angel perks up with uncertainty. "Beautiful?" he echoes the word back as if it's foreign. A single wing inches forward as though to shield him from any potential criticisms.

"Yeah…" Dean says, and it comes out as more of a sigh than the hunter probably intended, his eyes lofted on the dark protrusions. "I've never seen an angel's wings before; there must be a ton of colors and shapes and stuff, hunh, like birds?" The wings released a small shiver, flattening down like a dog whose ears had pinned back in piteous shame.

"Not at all, no." Castiel said too evenly, gazing intently at the stitches in the bedspread.

"No…?" the hunter frowned, drawing nearer. "Well what do they look like then, all uniform and black? I guess that's cool and all, but a little individuality-"

"An angel's wings can be of any construction, width, or length, but they are always the purest white." Internally Dean recoiled; there was pain there. A high, stressed pain that could be heard dancing behind each syllable. Still their eyes wouldn't meet. Dean hedged the inevitable.

"So then… why are yours black?"

"I do not know, Dean. I have never known. But it has been a… thing of note… for my brothers and sisters for as long as I can remember."

"It must be pretty cool, though, right? Being the only one with black wings? You must feel like a badass." And the man laughed that same genuine, warmth-inducing laugh and the angel couldn't help but look up into that smiling face with wonder.

"What cause would I have to feel like a 'badass'?" His head tilts marginally to the side, eyes crinkling up at the corners, and Dean only laughs more because it's just so _Cas_ to say slang so clinically.

"Well because you're the only one, right? That makes you special, not just some… you know, greeting card generic angel. Makes you recognizable."

"I don't think recognition is always as good as you believe." Castiel frowns as Dean sits beside him. "White feathers are a symbol of purity, of Holiness. So you can imagine…"

"What, picked on at angel school?" There's mirth in the words, but the hunter's eyes hold his gaze with such force that Castiel can't help but wonder if he would track down every last angel who had ever said a cruel word to him. Knowing Dean, it wouldn't surprise him. He looks away with reluctance, uncertain what to say, but it was answer enough, because the hunter continued. "Well, humans aren't perfect, and they're certainly not pure. Does that mean we're all Godless?"

"Of course not, Dean, that's what makes you human." Even as the angel's brows knit together, the wheels begin to turn and he stares back at his companion in question.

"And you love humans, yeah?"

"Naturally; I love all of my Father's creations."

"So then whenever they say that your wings make you 'impure' or 'imperfect' or whatever, aren't they just saying that you're a bit more human than the rest of them?"

"I suppose…" the angel ruffled uncomfortably. He was still pure and far less assuming than many of his siblings, but the undercurrent of his human's words reached out to him.

"See, nothin' wrong with that! It just goes to show that you're not one of the executive douchebags upstairs." Dean laughed that contagious laugh of his, and Castiel couldn't help but to smile his own subtle smile. "Being unique isn't always _bad_, Cas." The hunter adds once he's quieted. "Sometimes it just makes those worthwhile stand out from the, uh, flock." A shiver of warmth shoots through Castiel, but this time he knows that it's not from the mate mark. He was never good at handling compliments. Dean straightened beside him, stretching his muscles as his eyes remained rooted to the fluffy appendages to his right.

"How is it I've never seen them before? Got a cloaking device or something?"

"I was unaware that articles of clothing could have multiple uses." The angel frowns, sidetracked. Even if he draped Jimmy's trench coat over his wings, he doubted that they would be less noticeable.

"No, no I mean make them invisible." His human rectified, grinning like he had just seen into the angel's private mind theatre.

"Ah. Yes and no; if I have them out, then they can be visible to humans, as they are now, or I can hide them from the perceptions of others. Either way, angels and demons alike can see them, they just become… cumbersome… when in public. Just because they're invisible to mortals doesn't mean they're any less physical."

"Then like tonight at dinner… how do they _fit_ anywhere? We were packed in like sardines."

Castiel wonders what would cause fish to group together so closely, but dismisses it as another human metaphor. "I dismissed them." He settles for simply.

"Dismissed?"

"They were too much to deal with, so I dismissed them, as they have been for most of this week. It is only feasible within a human vessel, of course, but it gets cramped after a while." A thin smile stretched across his features as he slowly, almost self-consciously, stretched out his wings fully behind him, eliciting a small shiver of pleasure as the muscle relaxed.

Dean reached over without second thought, burying his hand gently within the soft down, finding the base of the wing and pressing small circles over it with his thumb. It wasn't the weirdest thing he'd seen or done, but it took him an entire minute and seven seconds – not that Castiel had counted – before realizing his actions, fingers slowing to a halt. But the angel had relaxed by then, eyes sliding shut, and Dean had never seen this side of Castiel before, and so he continued his ministrations, adding a second hand to join the first.

Thumbs traced and smoothed over taut muscle, tracing along the insides of the angel's shoulder blades, at the juncture between human skin and angelic feathers, messaging it out until there was a small shiver of relief and the tightness in his shoulders drooped just a margin more. Thumbs plied gently as fingers hooked around the exterior of the wings, nestling between soft coverts, smoothing them with soft touches. When the muscle had relaxed into submission, the fingers, not knowing how else to help, edged upwards, ghosting over softly plumaged forearms, messaging with a degree of compassion that Castiel had never felt from the hunter before. His wings lay half folded behind him, giving Dean full range from forearm to primaries, fingers and palms working methodically over all of it, willing the strain of too many days of dismissal away. By the time the hunter had worked his hands over them twice, Castiel was left with an unknown mix of electric shivers coursing through his being and a pool of warmth that had settled low in his abdomen.

"I guess I'm doing something right." Dean said softly, and Castiel could almost see the lazy smile on the other man's face. He gave another long stroke and the angel released a soft moan of approval, the first he noticed himself making, but he was in too much bliss to care, keening against the hands that relaxed him and inspired something… else, something unknown but needing within him.

He wondered dimly what Dean's hands really felt like. The weight of them on his wings was firm, yet gentle and careful; he could tell that they were strong and had a good grip. Were they smooth, as silky looking as the rest of the man's skin, or were they rough and calloused from practiced years of gun handling and fighting? Suddenly it felt strange to him that he didn't know something as basic as that, and he hungered to find out. Within the defensive world the brothers had created for themselves, there was to be no physical contact, no touching, hardly even in comfort. Something about that caused a stirring ache within the angel, a feeling of loss, and then he was plagued with questions.

How did Dean's hands feel against his own? Where they bigger, rougher? What did his skin feel like? Was it smooth? Was it warm, the kind of living warmth that sent tingles up his spine? What about his hair? Was it course, was it thick or soft? And his spine, could he feel the gentle slope in that strong neck, along his back? And the mate mark, what of that? Was it as velvety smooth as regular skin, was it rougher, and raised, or was it flatter than the rest and slightly cooler, like the result of scar tissue that was treated as thoroughly as possible? What did it feel like? What did any of Dean – of his _soulmate_ – feel like? It was so fundamentally wrong that after all this time, he still didn't know.

Slipping softly from the hunter's caress, Castiel turned to face him, hazy blue locking with hazy green in an electrifying moment where neither knew what would come next. Castiel slowly raised a hand, moving it to cup the hunter's check. Dean blinked, but didn't shy away, so the angel gently brushed the fragile skin with the pad of his thumb, mapping out the gentle contours of the man's face, fingers stroking slowly down to his jawline, and the firm muscle of his neck. It was warm, flushed even, and electrifying to the touch, waves of energy coursing through the angel as he spread his pads to feel, caress, stroke, indulge in the human before him. To trace every dip and feature as if afraid he would one day forget it entirely. Fingers threaded slowly through short brown hair, feeling the precise coarseness of each strand that was so foreign from his own. They worked their way through until they reached bare skin once more, curling over the small peaks of spine that rose and fell in graceful slopes.

As his other hand ran along the valleys of Dean's neck, fingering the sensitive Adam's apple, the dip of his collarbone, he became dimly aware of another pair of hands on him. They were hesitant, uncertain, but slowly tugging at his hips, pulling him closer as the hunter explored his sides, the dip of his back, the muscles that flexed with every small shift and flutter of his wings, still out and curling forward as if in an embrace, seeking out every bit of comfort and knowledge and warmth as their owner. He knows that neither of them know what they're doing, just that they need the same things. Comfort, shelter, proof that they're alive, that someone still needs them. That when all is said and done that maybe, just maybe, there would be someone to turn to.

Castiel knows that Dean is not the open type, that he won't ever settle down because he fears his happiness being stolen out from underneath him in the most horrific and bloodiest ways possible. He knows, he feels, and so he doesn't press anything: not his friendship, nor his feelings, nor the sacred bond he formed when he risked it all to pull the battered soul from perdition. All there is is the present, the warmth of Dean's skin, the heavy comfort of his hands slipping up ever so slightly beneath his shirt, the stolen glances wherein he can pretend for precious seconds that things are really okay, that they are okay, and that they are in… but Castiel won't inflict the hurt of saying what he can't achieve, and delves in to place a curious kiss along the hunter's neck, tasting the savory scents of light sweat, aftershave, leather, and pie, Dean's own natural cologne.

"We should stop. Stop." Dean says, withdrawing with hushed pants. He looks a bit flushed, and suddenly he won't meet the angel's gaze. Internally, Castiel shrinks within himself, uncertainty coiling within like some poised snake ready to strike and leave him breathless, alone.

"What is it?" he manages softly, fighting the building anxiety from his voice.

"It's just… this, you know?" the hunter replies vaguely, still staring as some spot beyond Castiel's shoulder as though it is the most interesting thing the in world. The angel remains silent, afraid to make the wrong observation. The core of his existence, his entire _raison d'__ê__tre_, only a fingertips breath away, and within seconds, oceans apart. A trill of fear spirals through him: what if this is the last time? The last time to draw so near, to share such private thoughts? The _only_ chance to feel, if only for a glimmer of a moment, that his soulmate reciprocated him, just to have it snatched back from underneath him by the clutches of reality and practicality. At last, Dean began to speak again, leaving the angel's thoughts to go wildly crashing up against each other like water on crags, eating and eddying at his determination.

"I mean… you're a guy." The hunter laughs humorlessly. "And I'm not _gay_. I can't be, it just wouldn't make sense. We just should stop, it's wrong."

Now Castiel looks up in genuine confusion, something about the hunter's last statement sparking a tiny indignant note within him. But all he can echo is, "'Gay'?" like a confused broken record.

"Well… yeah." Dean blinks, as though the definition should be obvious. "Like, well… homosexual." A wince. A definite wince. "Like… guys and guys and girls with girls. _Together_. …_Romantically_." But all Castiel can do is to continue to stare up at him in absolute loss.

"So then you mean to say… humans have typed love?" Blue eyes search green ones desperately, not comprehending the words being relayed to him. Now it is Dean's turn to stare, because he has no good reply for that.

"Well… I suppose, if you look at it that way."

"What other way is there to look?" the angel's aren't condescending, merely curious, and Dean feels the slightest bit uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Uh… there're straight people, and gays, lesbians… bisexuals, transsexuals-" he lists awkwardly, eyes dancing from the pair looking in to him.

"That matters?"

And it's so poignant that is almost hurts.

"I guess not…"

"Why do humans try to categorize love? It means no less or more based on form or method; love is something uncategorized, unexpected. No limit or definition can be placed upon it, so why must it be divided by physicality? My Father doesn't judge on the aesthetics of the soul, but the quality, so why must humans hate and worry when all that matters is that what they feel is real. Perhaps _I_ do not understand…"

"But what if Sam were to find out, or Bobby? What then?" There's a desperation there that reverberates in the angel's chest, and he subconsciously places a hand atop it, as if it alone will soothe the emotions tearing through the hunter.

"I do not understand, Dean. Do you suggest that after all of this that they wouldn't wish for your happiness?" But Dean isn't much listening to the angel's query, his mind already racing on to a larger, much scarier thought, and then it's out on his lips before he can stop it.

"But what if I love you?"

They sit in shocked silence; not quite looking at the other, knowing that no matter how things worked out, that there would be no returning to how things used to be. Castiel's wings shuffled nervously, belying his emotions, and finally he raises his head to capture the hunter's eyes.

"Would you loathe me, then?" he asks, and his voice is the softest either of them have ever heard it. Dean cocks his head, trying to avoid the gaze, but too captivated to break it either.

"Loathe you?"

"If you loved me, would you loathe me?" the angel insists. "Would you resent me for making you feel?"

"Cas…" at last the eyes tear away. "No, no, I wouldn't resent you. I… I _don't_ resent you, it's just so complex and I don't even understand how or why-"

"Then would you resent me for letting you love me?"

It's silent again, and now its Castiel turn to bow his head from whatever may next arise. He's still sitting half straddled over the hunter's lap, those hands frozen at his waist, all imitations of affection. He can hear Dean's heart as it beats off-kilter, can feel the confusion and desperation and _need_ welling up so strongly within him that it beats at the angel's chest like some caged bird desiring freedom and then there _is_ freedom and neither know what is happening or who started it, but it no longer matters because the soft swell of lips capturing and tasting and feeling overwhelm them and they're drunk with thirst for more.

It was all so foreign. So unknown and strange and beautiful, and he wanted more of it. He just had to know, thirsted so completely to know. How to please, how to love. How to feel complex, _human_. Unable to resist, he reached out to trace the scarred flesh at the hunter's shoulder. At a tremble, he smoothed a thumb across his own handprint, taking in the cool yet electrifying feel of it. The warmth of something gathered in his chest, some emotion he couldn't explain, and the faintest dusting of a blush graced his face when he realized that this feeling he could label almost as 'gratitude' was not just his own. He had to know how to feel complete.

"Cas…"

Electricity rippled through the angel, his breath stolen away with the smallest whisper. Their foreheads rested together, hands still clinging desperately, afraid to let go. Dean's lips were pinked, swollen, kissable, but blue flickered up to meet green eyes.

"Yes, Dean?"

The air between them was warm, comfortable in a way they had never been before. Walls had crumbled. Castiel threaded his fingers through coarse brown hair, caressing in ways that he'd never before known. Dean looked up at him, searching with anxiety. And Castiel couldn't resist the need to soothe the aching soul, leaving a tender kiss at the man's lips, trying to explain what his words could not. The flame of hope appeared, replacing the fear, and then green ducked down from beneath his gaze. A thumb rubbed a gentle arc above the button of the angel's pants.

"May I?" the broken whisper asked. Blue scanned the bowed head, searching for clarification, for the reassurance to say 'yes'. Sensing the other pair of eyes, green turned upwards, and caught. So raw.

'_I won't leave you, Dean. Not like all the others.'_

But the eyes continued to search, beg, _'Please?'_

"Yes." He whispered back, stroking the man's jaw softly. What he hoped was consolingly. A soft breath of relief followed, and Castiel pricked with anticipation for the uncertain unfolding events. A low 'thank you' could be heard only through the shuffling of fabric. It was carnal, he knew, however distantly. Yet that gentle emotion within his chest fluttered in protest, and he knew that it wasn't sinful, either. As a gasp tore from his throat he felt a rush of thankfulness. He would only ever consider this act – to offer up his entire being – with one individual; with his one and only mate. With _Dean_. He was grateful that only one person would ever make him feel this way. Make him, if only for an hour; experience a taste of the humanity he so dearly cherished.

Lips brushed along his jawline, pressing against the soft skin at the juncture of his neck, teeth grazing seductively, biting with an addicting possessiveness. The hunter nuzzled against his ear, whispering through pants, "Cas, please, _more_. Will you let me take this farther?"

The angel didn't know what 'farther' entailed but he moaned out a soft 'yes'. Usually reserved, it no longer mattered to Castiel what that 'farther' was, because Dean wanted him back, wanted and needed him closer, to have more of him, and he would go to any length to please the man he so dearly loved.

The word – even the thought – sent electricity through him, thrilling him even as the hunter's hand slipped away. _Love_. Yes, that was it. It was love. He loved Dean. He loved his human, his mate, the complex and compelling creature beneath him. Loved more than the physical; more than the savory taste of burgers, the freeing feeling of the wind buffeting against him, than the brushing of human soul wavelengths against him as he walked down streets, the curling sweetness of baking, of humans creating. He would give up any of it, _all_ of it, just to stay at this one man's side. To bask in his presence like a being starved, drinking in his light with silent appreciation and yearning. Loved, and would sacrifice anything for these moments of earthly Heaven.

"Ah!" the angel bit out a groan. "I-I'll be alright, now." He panted out, pressing his cheek against the side of the man's head, drawing close. "I… please."

The whisper sent a thrill through the hunter, and Castiel could feel a surge of that something reverberating in his chest through the mate mark, but this time he dared not to label it. "You sure?"

"Yes." He breathed in reply. Castiel was entirely lost to the sensations, overcome with proximity and heat and passion and need, stroking desperately at the mark at Dean's shoulder, his other hand carding continuously through wet and course sheets of brunette hair. He didn't even notice the man's name tumbling from his lips like some desperate chant, mind driven blank and raw.

"F-Fuuuck, _Cas._" Dean drew the sound out in a deep groan, becoming erratic, fingers scrambling against the sensitive expanse between the angel's wings.

"_Dean_." Castiel exhaled, pulling his human into a last passionate kiss. They stilled, spent, the room filling with warm pants. With the last of his energy, Dean raised Castiel's hips, releasing him and collapsed back onto the mattress. The angel spread out next to him, relaxing when he wasn't asked to move. They lay in silence a moment longer, catching their breaths when Dean broke the stillness.

"Thank you, Cas." A tired smile played across his lips and the angel's heart fluttered as if winged itself.

"Any time, Dean." He offered quietly. The hunter didn't reply, staring at the ceiling and causing Castiel to freeze, wondering if he had said the wrong thing. Green eyes glanced over at him, curious, but attempting to be subtle. "I mean it." Castiel swallowed, scanning for traces of disgust or annoyance but finding none. "Any time, Dean."

"What is this?" the hunter deflected, massaging gently over the scar at this shoulder. "It probably sounds crazy but it… felt _good_, you know? You kept touching it like crazy, and somehow I could feel _something_ and it just intensified everything- "

"It's a mate mark." The angel blurted out, slowly filling with hope. Dean had felt something, had actually felt something when-

"A what?"

"A mate mark… the one I gave you so I could pull you from Hell. It is… it's attached to my soul… forever… which allowed yours to escape passed the Gates without tearing to shreds." Blue eyes dropped guiltily.

"Forever?" the hunter echoed.

"Forever. For all of your life and mine." Castiel swallowed, still not meeting the other's gaze. "Even after the day comes when you pass, you will be my one and only mate, the only one I can ever have." He could feel Dean's eyes on him and feared what they might hold.

"So… mates, hunh?" came the soft reply. "Like animals, or- "

"Partners."

"Like a husband."

The angel's eyes darted up, capturing the curiosity and intensity of green in an instant, his breath stolen away. A split second later and the hunter was blushing for certain.

"What? It is, right?" he asked, clearly trying to squash down his embarrassment. "You angel-married me to save me from Hell and gave up your right to marry some hot babe angel, right?"

"Yes." Castiel replied quietly. "Though I would never have done so anyway; you're the only one I would want and trust that much."

Dean stilled, registering the words as the angel watched with anxious tension. A rogue – yet somehow adoring – smile spread across the hunter's features. "So… then can I marry you back?"

The angel stared, blue eyes widening. "Dean?"

"Seems I've left you standing at the altar for a while now, Cas." The other replied, still smiling the same warming smile.

"Are you- ?"

"Sure? Yeah, I am. Tonight… this… I thought something like this would take some serious getting used to, but… I've never felt this relaxed and comfortable with someone before." He swallowed, glancing off. "Or this happy." Green flickered back to hold blue in an impassioned gaze. "I want to settle down, Cas, I do. You know I want family and… and _love_ above all else." He choked around the words and the angel drew nearer. "I don't… I don't have to worry with you. That you'll die or that you'll come out damaged. You're strong and I don't have to always worry if you're at risk of being hunted or maimed by a damn demon or monster all the time." There was a shiver of silence and the angel waited, sensing more. "I… I do love you, Cas. This… this thing can work."

Hands enveloped the hunter's and drew to Castiel's chest. "I love you, Dean." Love welled up in the hunter's eyes, the sensation coursing through him in relieved waves. "Just know that it means forever."

"I know; that's how it should be. Forever."

Castiel's heart fluttered as he placed a hand completely over the mate mark, Enochian flowing easily from him in a soft chant. Dean released a low gasp as the mark began to prick and tingle with an ethereal heat, the feeling coursing through their bodies as though within their very blood. "Now take your hand – it doesn't matter which one – and place it wherever you desire; the mark will form there." Castiel instructed, barely daring to breath. His mate looked up at him, into him, and a smile graced his lips once more. His hand wrapped around the curve of the angel's hip as he pulled them close for a loving kiss, finally united as one.

‡

Sam returned to the hotel late in the morning, juggling the keys awkwardly as he balanced a box of Krispy Kreme with the other hand. He entered quietly, hoping not to wake his brother – and thereby spark his annoyance for what would be the remainder of the day – and set the box down on the small table by the door. He rounded a corner of the room and froze, eyes falling upon the sleeping forms of his best friend and brother, half covered by twisted sheets, the angel folded comfortably into the embrace of the hunter.

Sam watched awhile, rooted to the spot, before shaking his head and debating whether or not bleach was a suitable thing to pursue at the moment or not. He palmed the keys back into his hand, extracting a chocolate glazed from the box as he slipped out the door, a rueful smile finally settling over his features. "About damn time."

‡

Misha stared at the screen, releasing a low hum as his eyes scanned the tiny glowing words. It was dark – some dark o'thirty in the morning – and the glare from his laptop burned in the blackness of his house. With a pleased nod, he saved the document and exited out of Word, closing the laptop with a decisive click. He sat in pensive silence, swirling the remainders of his tea around in his mug before downing them and crawling back in to bed, wondering what Mr. Kripke could possibly think.

* * *

This is the edited/clean version of Strange & Beautiful. For the full version with lemon, please see my main page. Hope you all enjoyed!


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